


Lysistrata

by whichclothes



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-07
Updated: 2011-04-07
Packaged: 2017-10-17 17:24:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichclothes/pseuds/whichclothes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike withholds sex until Angel agrees to be more careful. Inspired by Aristophanes' Lysistrata.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Lysistrata  
 **Part:** 1 of 3  
 **Pairing:**  Spike/Angel  
 **Rating:**  NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss   
 **Summary** : Spike withholds sex until Angel agrees to be more careful. Inspired by Aristophanes' Lysistrata.  
 **Notes:** The fic is complete and I'll post one part daily **.** Incorporates the [](http://community.livejournal.com/angst_bingo/profile)[**angst_bingo**](http://community.livejournal.com/angst_bingo/)   prompt "Losing immortality." Many thanks to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  , my wonderful beta. Special thanks to [](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/profile)[**blondebitz**](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/)   who made the **three** awesome banners and **four** userpics!!

  


  
  
  
  
  
  
[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/0014w0we/)  
---  
  
 

**Lysistrata**

**Part One**

Three floors below him, the trams rattled and squealed. They made the entire building shake slightly, reminding him of California and earthquakes. He wanted to look outside, to remind himself he was far, far away from that place now, but the sun was out. It was weak, filtering through filmy clouds, but it was enough to keep him well away from the windows. He was pinned inside, in fact, separated from the world by several hours of day—and the sounds down below only reminded him that for everyone else, life went on, while for him, unlife did not.

He wasn’t normally this gloomy. Never was one to brood. But this was the fourth bloody time this month he’d been stuck like this, waiting, helpless, wondering whether—

A key clanked in the lock of the flat's big front door. Spike let out a long breath and arranged himself against a wall, trying to look as unconcerned as possible and undoubtedly failing miserably. The lock clicked open and the doorknob moved, but the door didn’t open right away, as if the person on the other side was hesitant to enter.

“Get it over with, wanker,” Spike said loudly.

A moment later the door swung open and Angel stepped in. His shoulders were bowed and his head was down, his coat was pulled tightly about his body, but Spike immediately caught the scent of blood.

“Oi! Not again!” Spike said from his post against the wall.

Angel didn’t say anything, didn’t look up at him. For a moment he just stood there, shifting his feet slightly, and then he turned and headed towards the loo. The old wooden floor creaked under his heavy tread. He was limping so badly it was almost a stagger.

Spike waited and then caught up with Angel, managing to slip into the loo just before Angel shut the door. “Give us a look then,” Spike ordered.

Angel glowered at him. His face was battered, one eye already puffing shut and his lower lip split. Spike unconsciously licked his own lips at the sight of the crusted blood, and then stepped forward and reached for Angel’s coat. Angel shrugged away. “Don’t.”

“Either you show me willingly or I’ll hold you down and strip you myself, Peaches.”

Angel frowned even more severely, but then sighed and let his coat slip off his shoulders. Right away Spike could see that his shirt was shredded, and then Angel peeled it off to reveal bruises already forming darkly over his ribs. He was trying to pretend it didn’t hurt, but Spike could hear the slight hitch in his breathing every time he moved. “How bad?” Spike asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe a cracked rib or two.”

Spike growled as he yanked open the cupboard and pulled out the generously sized first aid kit. “You need hospital?”

“No,” Angel grunted, unbuckling his belt. “I’ll be fine.”

“You call this fine?” Spike demanded, poking at Angel’s side and making him hiss. 

Angel stood like a chastened child as Spike pulled down his trousers and his poncy silk briefs. No damage below the waist, at least nothing visible, and for that at least, Spike was grateful. He wrapped a length of bandage about Angel’s torso and then pushed him down so he was seated on the closed toilet. Only then did Spike notice that Angel was shivering, his skin gone all goose-pimpled, and so Spike turned the knob on the heater, making the flames inside roar to life.

“What was it this time?” Spike asked, dabbing at Angel’s face with a damp flannel.

“Paramoistee. They were lurking up in Kaptol and—”

“And you couldn’t wait for sunset to go after them?”

“Spike, I can’t hang around all day waiting for the sun to set.”

“Why not? Worked well enough for over two centuries.”

Angel didn’t answer, but pulled his head away slightly when Spike touched the swelling around his eye. Spike sighed and set the flannel on the edge of the sink, then knelt in front of Angel to remove his shoes and his bunched-up clothing. “’M not saying you can’t go out during the day, mind you,” he continued. “Go enjoy the bloody sunshine. Just wait until dark to do your fighting. Wait until I can join you.”

“I _can’t_.” Angel used Spike’s shoulder to lever himself to his feet, grunting with the effort. “If I’d waited until tonight these demons would have—”

“Yeah, yeah. ’T’s always the same, innit? You’ve earned your sodding reward already. You don’t need to keep putting yourself at risk like this. One of these days—”

“I know.” Angel pushed Spike out of the way and raised the toilet seat. If he thought that the exercise of his human needs was going to make Spike go away, he was wrong. Spike just waited with his arms crossed as Angel pissed—thankfully, no sign of blood there—and flushed and washed up. Then Spike trailed along as Angel walked the few steps to the bedroom, and Spike helped him collapse onto the bed. After a moment’s hesitation, Spike stripped off his own clothing and climbed between the sheets as well, blanketing himself across Angel’s broad back. 

Angel turned over and pushed at Spike’s hip so that Angel was spooning from behind instead. The bandages rubbed against Spike’s back, reminding him that Angel couldn’t be that comfortable like this, but Spike didn’t complain. He liked the feeling of a big, warm body behind him. And despite Angel’s injuries, Spike wasn’t surprised when he felt the soft cock against his arse thicken and grow hard, or when Angel’s big hand crept down Spike’s belly and began to play with the curls at his groin. Humanity hadn’t changed the randy old bastard that much, and he had a century of not getting happy to make up for. He’d come home in worse shape than this before and still fancied a shag.

A shag. Even as Spike’s own cock stirred and began to take an interest in the proceedings, his mind whirred. He’d spent months trying to convince Angel to stop getting into brawls without him. He’d yelled and threatened, begged and almost cried, but the great pillock continued to throw himself at demons, putting his frail, mortal body at risk every time. A deep certainty was lodged in Spike’s heart that one of these days Angel just wouldn’t come home. The thought of being left alone like that made Spike’s stomach clench.

He rolled over and pulled away from Angel. “No,” he said.

Angel blinked at him in surprise. “Look, I’ll be okay. I’ll be careful. You can do that thing where—”

“No.”

Angel frowned. “Come on. You can’t tell me you’re not interested.” He reached for Spike’s cock, which wasn’t exactly following the program, and Spike batted his hand away.

“I said no. No means no, wanker.”

“Why not?”

“We won’t be shagging again until you promise not to fight without me.”

Angel looked completely taken aback before erupting in laughter. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Dead serious.”

“Like you can hold out for more than a day.”

“Contrary to your opinions, berk, I am not a slut. And I’ve a perfectly good left hand. I can unlive just fine without your fat arse.”

Angel snorted. “Like hell you can.”

Spike poked him in the side, taking care to avoid the worst of the bruises. “You’ll be the one begging for my sexy body in no time at all.”

Angel grabbed Spike’s wrist. “Contrary to your own opinion, you’re not irresistible.”

“We’ll see about that,” Spike replied, jerking his hand away.

Angel just sighed melodramatically and rolled onto his other side, away from Spike.

***

The sun had already set when Spike woke up. Angel was still snoring like a chainsaw, a little string of drool trailing from his open mouth. His split lip was so swollen he probably couldn’t close it all the way. Spike made sure he was tucked in well, then wandered off to shower.

The state of the bathroom always made him sigh in exasperation. His sire had made ample use of hair products when he was a vampire. Now that he was alive, he worried about balding and body odor and razor burn and a million other things the adverts told him he should worry about, and consequently the loo was overflowing with bottles and tubes. The scent of it all was sometimes overwhelming to Spike’s sensitive nose, but if he threw the stuff away Angel only brought home twice as much the next day.

“Vain old sod,” Spike muttered as he climbed into the shower. He remembered the trauma a few months earlier, when Angel had discovered a gray hair. “Part of the price of being a real boy,” Spike had said. “We can always bleach the whole lot of it.”

Angel had thrown a pillow at him and Spike had growled back, and then they’d had a lovely little tussle that soon evolved into an even lovelier shag, and Angel had been distracted from his concerns about his mortality—for a while, at least. And that was a pleasant memory, but not one Spike should have dredged up at the beginning of his self-imposed celibacy, because now he pictured Angel above him, muscles straining, heart racing, sweat falling in soft droplets from his face and chest. 

As the hot water streamed over him, Spike took his hardening cock in his left hand and gave it a squeeze. Naturally that didn’t discourage the thing at all—it only filled more, the head bouncing about eagerly. Spike grabbed the soap—poncy shite that smelled like fruit salad—and lathered himself up, resolving to think of someone else besides Angel as he wanked. Dru. Buffy. Harmony. None of them worked. Right then. A bloke. Spike hadn’t had many men over the years, but there had been a few he’d fancied. He pictured them now. That beautiful boy in Madrid who'd had such lively eyes and such a lovely arse that Spike had allowed him to live after their little tryst. The big, sandy-haired bloke in Sarajevo just after the Great War. The blond Viking he and Dru had shared one January in Aarhus. But all their faces and bodies kept morphing into the familiar shape of his sire. Out of desperation, Spike even tried imagining men he hadn’t shagged and never wanted to: Rupert Giles. Percy. Sodding Xander Harris! But still there was Liam, tall and well-built, with his bloody stupid hair.

At least Spike managed not to say Angel’s name when he came.

By the time he had dried and dressed and emerged from the bathroom, Angel was awake, puttering about in the kitchen. He wore silky pajama trousers and no shirt, but was still heavily swathed in bandages and moving gingerly. He gave Spike a knowing look that suggested he was aware exactly what Spike had been up to for so long in the shower, but he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he plopped a mug down on the table. “You’re almost out of blood,” he announced.

Spike frowned and lifted the mug to his lips for a sip.

Angel continued. “I’ll go to Dolac this morning and get you some more.”

“You’re not mended yet! You shouldn’t be traipsing about.”

“I think I can manage a trip to the market, Spike. It’s only a few blocks. And I’m not going to encounter anything fiercer than some of those grandmothers with the wheely carts.”

Spike gestured at him with the cup. “Some of those grandmothers can be downright frightening. You ever try to get between one of them and a nice bit of Paški sir?”

Angel rolled his eyes. “I’ll keep clear of the cheese.”

“But Liam—”

“Look, Spike. I’m just gonna go shopping, okay? You need blood and it’s way too sunny for you to get it yourself. I’m over two hundred years old and I’m fully capable of getting to a market and back in one piece.”

“And what if you happen to see a demon?”

“I won’t.”

“But what if you do?”

Angel sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “If it’s dangerous I’ll kill it.”

“Unless it kills you first.”

“Spike—”

Spike slammed his mug onto the table, spilling a little blood. “You’re not sodding Superman! You’re human and mortal and…and bloody vulnerable.”

“So what do you expect me to do?” Now Angel was shouting. “Bus tables? Sell insurance? This is what I _do_!”

“Haven’t you done enough?” Spike yelled back. “Saved the world over and over. Doesn’t matter how many lives you save now, Liam, it won’t bring back a single one you took.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not worth doing.”

“Fine! Then at least wait until I can be there with you.”

“I can’t. I can’t always wait.”

Spike growled in frustration. He stomped out of the kitchen, grabbed his duster from the hook near the door, and yanked the door open. He slammed it shut very hard.

The problem with Zagreb, he mused as he tromped through the dark streets, was that it was safe. Crime rates were low and there were few places a bloke could dig up a rousing brawl. Sure, there were a few bars that catered to underworld clientele, both human and not, but the patrons and proprietors of those places had long since come to know Spike and they avoided getting into fights with him. That left only the serious bad-asses, the nasty sorts of demons who popped up to dine on humans and the like, and Angel had apparently dealt with the latest crop of those already. Spike was left with loads of anger and nobody to take it out on.

He ended up in a dowdy but perfectly respectable bar, in which men played billiards and argued happily about the football match showing on the telly. He plopped down on a wobbly seat and scowled at everyone as he drank his Tomislav Pivo. There were a few birds in the place—two tall brunettes and a shorter blonde—and they were pretty enough, but when they looked at him he scowled at them as well. 

He wasn’t feeling any happier after he’d finished off a half dozen glasses. Wasn’t feeling the slightest bit pissed either, and he was running low on kuna. Angel had managed to stash away a nice nest-egg, but the cheap bastard kept tight control over it. He gave Spike an allowance. A bloody _allowance_!

Spike growled loudly enough that everyone looked at him in alarm. He decided it was time to leave.

He walked for several blocks past gray, slightly decrepit buildings, most of which had been built around the time he died. Usually he amused himself trying to decipher the ubiquitous graffiti, but tonight he was in no mood for it. Two middle-aged women were standing outside the hospital, smoking. Angel had met someone at that hospital who was occasionally able to supply them with a few packets of human blood, which was a nice break from the cow and pig that made up the bulk of Spike’s diet. But that source was on holiday for two weeks, so Spike frowned at the smoking women, who frowned back.

Without really intending to go there, Spike found himself at Ban Jelacic Square where, despite the late hour, pedestrians still bought magazines from the kiosk and dodged the trams. Two people were standing under the statue of the Ban himself, each of them facing toward Ilica and waiting to meet someone. The Ban didn’t care—as always, he looked ready for battle, his mustaches bristling, his curved sword pointed staunchly southward. Someone had tucked a bouquet of bright flowers into his lap. But Spike didn’t smile.

A couple in their twenties snogged as they waited for their tram, an old lady in a headscarf sighed and waddled by with her arms full of plastic sacks, and a middle-aged man ambled along with his leashed dog trailing behind. It was all so sodding _normal_ that Spike wanted to scream. Didn’t they know the world was filled with monsters who wanted to eat them? Didn’t they know that there were good men and women who risked their lives—who _died_ —so these people could be safe?

With a final evil glare at humanity in general, Spike turned on his heel and headed home.

***

Spike was still awake when Angel returned from Dolac. “See? I didn’t get eaten,” Angel said, sticking the glass bottles of blood in the fridge. “Not even nibbled on.”

Spike didn’t look away from the BBC News program he was pretending to watch. “Brilliant. You can go shopping without mayhem.”

Angel didn’t answer, but Spike heard him rustling about in the kitchen, and a few moments later Angel plopped down on the sofa beside him and handed him a warm mug. “It’s fresh,” Angel said.

Spike sniffed at it. It was fresh. Probably mooing only hours ago. Angel had heated it to exactly the right temperature and Spike sipped gratefully, but still didn’t look away from the telly.

“Spike, this is stupid.”

“’T’s American politics, mate. Of course it’s stupid.”

“Not the TV! I mean you, this…. You’re pouting.”

That made Spike turn and glare at him. ‘’M not _pouting_ , wanker! I’m worried about your great, poncy arse. And with good reason.” He poked at Angel’s side.

“Ow!”

“Right. And if you’d only listen to reason—”

“Yeah, like suddenly you’re the voice of reason?”

Spike growled and turned back to the telly.

After that they just sat there for a long time, not talking, not touching, eyes facing forward. When Spike couldn’t stand it any longer he stood and threw the remote into Angel’s lap.

“Where’re you going? It’s daytime.”

“I know that, don’t I? Not a bloody idiot. I’m going to bed. Isn’t that where I belong? Off in the darkness like a good little creature of the night.”

“Now you’re just being melodramatic.”

Spike kicked Angel’s foot—which would have been more satisfying if he still had his Docs on—and marched off to the bedroom. It didn’t take him long to strip and climb into bed. A bed that smelled of Angel and sex, unfortunately. Spike squeezed his eyes closed and tried to sleep, but he couldn’t. 

He and Angel had first turned to each other for comfort after they’d defeated Wolfram & Hart. They’d won the war all right, but lost so much in the effort: everyone they cared about—Wes and Charlie and Connor and even Illyria—and the Scoobies who had arrived at the last minute to back them up. Yeah, there were plenty of Slayers in the world nowadays, but Buffy was gone. Hell, there were days when Spike even missed Rupert and Harris. But Spike and Angel had survived—Angel in newly humanized form—and they’d consoled one another with their bodies, as survivors often do.

At some point though, it became more than that. They stayed together not because they had no one else to turn to, but because they wanted to. Although neither might admit it out loud, they valued each other’s company. And what they had wasn’t just shagging—although that was frequent and lovely—but companionship. And touch. Christ, Angelus had always known how much Spike craved contact of any kind. Gentle if he could get it, but if he couldn’t even fierce and hurtful would do. A beating was better than nothing. And now Angel could finally bring himself to indulge Spike, to spend waking hours with frequent petting of arms and legs and shoulders, with occasional pats on the back or squeezes of a shoulder. To spend their time in bed with skin against skin, cold on hot, enfolded in each other’s arms.

This withholding sex thing had been a terrible idea.

Except…Spike pictured Angel as he’d been when he returned home the morning before, bruised and battered. And he pictured even more vividly the morning that would surely arrive, in which Angel didn’t come home at all.

Spike wouldn’t be able to bear that. He simply couldn’t.

So when Angel came into the bedroom not too much later, and when he slipped out of his clothing and into the bed, Spike pretended to be asleep. He didn’t even breathe. And when Angel scooted up against him, warm and smelling of almond soap, Spike grunted and pulled away.

Angel sighed. “Fine. If that’s the way you want to do it.”

They both lay awake for a very long time after that.

  
[Part Two](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/265777.html)


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Lysistrata  
 **Part:**  2 of 3  
 **Pairing:**  Spike/Angel  
 **Rating:**  NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss   
 **Summary** : Spike withholds sex until Angel agrees to be more careful. Inspired by Aristophanes' Lysistrata.  
 **Notes:** The fic is complete and I'll post one part daily **.** Incorporates the [](http://community.livejournal.com/angst_bingo/profile)[**angst_bingo**](http://community.livejournal.com/angst_bingo/)   prompt "Losing immortality." Many thanks to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  , my wonderful beta. Special thanks to [](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/profile)[**blondebitz**](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/)   who made the **three** awesome banners and **four** userpics!!

  


  
  
  
  
  
  
[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/0014xcfy)  
---  
  
 

**Part Two**

 “I’m pretty sure there’s some vamps hanging out in Mamutica.”

Spike blinked groggily up at Angel. “Wha’?”

Angel made an impatient noise. “Vampires. Mamutica. You know, that big apartment building?”

“Know what Mamutica is, berk. Just…give me a mo’. I was sound asleep.” Spike stood and stretched, working out the kinks in his muscles. He’d been sleeping on the sofa all week, away from the temptation of Angel’s body. Sleeping on the sofa helped him stick to celibacy, but it was bloody uncomfortable. He noticed now that Angel’s eyes grew wide at his nudity; Spike smirked and made his stretching as sensuous as possible, until Angel swallowed thickly and looked away.

“Get dressed,” Angel said gruffly.

“Why? ’M comfortable like this.” Spike sashayed into the kitchen, perhaps waggling his arse a bit more than necessary. His blood was on the bottom shelf of the fridge and he made sure to bend far over to fetch it. When he stood back up, Angel’s eyes were a little glassy.

 “See something you fancy, pet?” Spike said with a leer.

Angel shook his head to clear it. “This isn’t gonna work. I spent decades not having sex—”

“Not when I was about. Never could resist me, not even when I was in the sodding wheelchair.”

“That was Angelus.”

Spike rolled his eyes and poured the blood into a mug. “You keep on telling yourself that, pumpkin. But it wasn’t ’Gelus in that submarine, was it?” 

Angel’s face reddened, whether from shame or anger, Spike couldn’t tell. Angel ought to get his blood pressure checked. He hadn’t even had a proper physical since he became human—perhaps there were loads of things wrong with him. Well, that was a battle Spike could take up later, after he’d won the current war.

As Spike warmed the blood in the microwave and then sipped at it, leaning back against the counter, Angel made a visible effort to calm himself. “Vampires,” he finally said. “Mamutica.”

“Yeah. You said that bit already.”

“Are you gonna come help me fight ’em or what?”

Spike glanced out the kitchen window. It faced north and was mostly surrounded by walls. As a consequence, it got very little direct sunlight, and he and Angel hadn’t bothered to cover it. Now when he looked through the glass he saw peeling plaster, weathered roof tiles, and a sky that was darkening to deep indigo. By the time he got dressed it would be safe for him to go outside. “Fine,” he said, and slurped the last of his breakfast. He left the mug in the sink without rinsing it, even though he knew it would annoy Angel. Then he wandered off to find his clothing.

When they’d arrived in Zagreb, Spike had made the mistake of allowing Angel to buy a car for them. The pillock must have made an effort to find the most ridiculous vehicle possible, because he’d returned with a Smart. A red one with black trim. It looked like a giant’s football shoe and Spike wanted nothing to do with it. Tonight, though, he didn’t fancy walking all the way through Novi Zagreb to get to Mamutica, and getting there by tram seemed to lack dignity. Besides, the night trams were a bit unreliable. So with a scowl on his face, Spike folded himself into the passenger seat. “Stupid bloody roller skate,” he mumbled as Angel crammed himself into the driver’s seat.

“Yeah, but it gets great mileage. And I can park it anywhere.” 

That was true, at least. Parking was scarce in their neighborhood but Angel could turn the Smart sideways and fit it between two traditional spots.

“Still stupid,” Spike said. Angel ignored him and poked the gerbils, or whatever worked to start the bloody thing’s tiny engine.

They didn’t speak as they rattled over the tram tracks and down the street. There were still quite a few people about: standing outside the nearby shopping mall and smoking, trudging home with backpacks, dragging wheeled luggage toward the train station. A pair of tall, skinny blondes in tight jeans gave Spike and Angel the eye as they waited at a red light. But then the light turned green and they were off again, making a few turns before trundling over the Sava River and into the dreariness of Novi Zagreb. Only a few minutes later, Angel pulled the car to a halt in front of the apartment building and they managed to extricate themselves from the Smart.

“So you’ve some idea where they are, or do you mean to spend the next month searching for them?” Spike asked, eyeing the enormous building as he followed Angel towards an entrance. Some of the shops on the ground floor were still open: a sandwich place, a pharmacy, a Croatian lottery outlet.

“Two bodies have been found at the south end, lower level. I figure we can start there. Maybe you can track them.”

“So I’m your bloodhound tonight, is that it?”

Angel ignored his question and pushed at the door. It was unlocked. They passed a few people as they wound their way through the hallways, but nobody paid them any mind. Then they came to a spot at the bottom of a stairwell. The floor and walls had obviously been cleaned recently—there were breaks in the general grime of the place—but Spike could still smell human blood. Angel looked at him expectantly. “Well?”

“Yeah. Vamps.” He sniffed. “Four of them.”

“Can you find them?”

“I expect so.”

Now Spike led, down the stairs and into a basement. The space was dark and dusty, packed with locked storage compartments and littered with old plastic bags and bits of cardboard, discarded rags, crumpled newspapers, and used condoms. But the scent of demons was stronger here—very fresh indeed—and Spike had no trouble following it as they made their way through the maze. 

He put up a hand to stop Angel, who was lumbering along behind him. “Shh,” Spike hissed. He pointed across a clear stretch of floor, towards a closed and dented wooden door. He could hear voices on the other side talking quietly, and what sounded like the laugh track to a sitcom. Angel nodded and then nearly tiptoed behind Spike.

Spike paused just outside the door and inhaled once more. Yes, definitely vampires. Two of them still had the reek of grave dirt on them. He checked to make sure Angel had his stake handy—Spike himself preferred to fight with hands, feet, and fangs—and then yanked open the door.

Four vampires gaped at them in astonishment. They were sprawled across a filthy sofa and chairs, and had obviously been passing a bottle of rakija amongst themselves. Several dozen empty bottles littered the floor, and an ancient television was set on a wooden crate, still emitting laugh track cackles. The desiccated corpse of an old man was crumpled in one corner of the room.

Spike sneered at them. “Somebody gives you immense strength and immortality, and this is what you do with it? Wankers.”

The vampires surged towards the door, but it was too late. Spike let his fangs drop and gleefully tore into them, while Angel began to swing his stake. It didn’t take long before three of the vampires were dust; but Spike wasn’t nearly satisfied, so he toyed with the last of them, a block-headed and balding male. The male growled Slavic curses and Spike deftly bobbed and feinted, getting in small blows now and then, until Angel huffed, stepped forward, and staked the bastard.

Spike watched the ashes settle onto his boots. “I was having fun.”

“And making enough noise to raise the dead. Let’s get out of here before policija show up.”

“Yeah, okay,” Spike said with a sigh, and brushed off the vampire’s remains. He took a quick look at the corpse before they left, to make sure they wouldn’t have a new vamp on their hands in the next day or two, but the old bloke was just plain dead. Spike settled the body a bit more comfortably onto the floor. “Wonder if he’s family somewhere, missing him. Grandchildren maybe.”

Angel clapped Spike on the shoulder. “I’ll call the police when we get home. Make sure they find him.”

Spike nodded and left the room.

Back in the clown car, they were both silent for a time, until Angel cleared his throat. “So, um…you gonna come back to the bed tonight?”

Spike turned his head to look at Angel, who was staring resolutely at the street in front of him. “Bed’s seemed a mite empty?” Spike asked.

“Um…you’ve been leaving your blankets and stuff all over the couch. It’s a pain.”

“I’ll come back to bed when you make a promise, Liam.”

That made Angel look at him. “But I brought you with me to fight tonight!”

“Yeah, and it was lovely. You’d have had a nasty time of it, four vamps on your own.”

“So? Isn’t fighting together what you wanted?”

“What I want is a promise that you won’t fight without me again.”

“I can’t promise that!” Angel yelled.

“And you expected that one little tussle would make me call uncle?” Spike shouted back.

“You’re being totally unreasonable!”

“And you’re being a stubborn arse!”

There didn’t seem to be much point in speaking to each other after that. They both glared at the windscreen until Angel piloted the car to a halt between two Fiats. Angel headed for the building’s front door, but Spike stalked in the other direction.

“Where are you going?” Angel called after him.

“Out.”

A part of him hoped Angel would chase after him, but Angel didn’t. A moment later, the door to the building slammed shut.

This time Spike ended up at a club, a basement place with strobe lights and brightly painted furniture and several dozen young people writhing to horrible music. He didn’t have any money, so he downed a few half-empty glasses of beer he found sitting unprotected on sticky tables, and then leaned against a wall.

After a while, a lovely girl with blue streaks in her hair parked herself in front of him. “Bi li htio plesati sa mnom?” she asked him with a smile.

“I’d love to dance,” he replied in English.

Her eyes lit up. “You’re British?”

“I am.”

“Then I will practice my English with you while we dance.”

He nodded agreeably and allowed her to tow him to a clear spot. He hadn’t danced in ages and she was quite good, so he enjoyed himself despite the musical selection. And while they danced she kept her word, shouting questions to him about where he was from and what he was doing in Zagreb. He made up answers that seemed to satisfy her and they danced together until the music stopped.

They walked out into the chilly night and stood near the entrance to the club. She had cigarettes—with Angel’s stingy allowance he could buy them only rarely—and she shared as they leaned against the dingy wall.

Finally, she looked around. “My friends have all gone.”

“I’ll walk you home then.”

“My feet hurt. I’ll take a tram.”

“I’ll make sure you get home safely.”

She smiled at him. “Good.”

It was past 4 a.m., which meant the trams had already switched to their daytime schedule. They didn’t have to wait long before the number 4 came rattling along and they climbed inside. Although the car was nearly empty, she snuggled up close to him. She smelled of beer and vanilla perfume and, he thought, mango. Perhaps her shampoo. It was nice.

They got off the tram right across from Maksimir Park. Some of the animals in the zoo were awake and roaring already. Spike followed the girl a few blocks until they came to a ten-story building. “This is where I am living,” she said outside the door. There was a slightly awkward pause, and then she added, “You would like to come in?”

He leaned in and gave her a brotherly kiss on the cheek. “No, but ta for asking. You’re a lovely girl, but you should be more careful who you invite in.”

Then he smiled and walked away.

***

“You smell like a fermented fruit salad. And cigarettes.” 

Spike opened bleary eyes and blinked up at Angel. “So?”

“Even with a human sense of smell I can tell. Where were you last night?”

Spike yawned and glanced at the clock on the DVD player. It was later than he’d expected: nearly 4 in the afternoon, as a matter of fact. “Went to a club,” he said.

“And?”

“What’s with the bloody interrogation? I met a girl.”

Angel’s jaw worked. “Did you fuck her?”

Spike jumped up from the sofa. “No! We danced and we talked and I saw her home like a good little lad and that’s all.”

A look of bald relief flashed across Angel’s face. “Oh. I thought…. Never mind.” He started to walk away but Spike grabbed him.

“Thought what? That I’m a slut who can’t keep it in his trousers?”

“No! I just…. I don’t understand you, Spike.”

Spike released his grip on Angel’s wrist. “Never have, mate.”

“Look. You wanted to fight together and we did.”

“What I wanted was for you not to fight alone.”

Angel frowned at him. “You’re jealous. You still think you should have been the vampire from the prophecy, the one who got rewarded with humanity, and—”

“I don’t want to be a sodding human!”

“—and you’re still afraid to lose out on some of the, the glory.”

Spike despaired of ever making the thick sod understand. “What glory, Peaches? Don’t see them erecting your statue in any city squares. You’ll battle and you’ll save them and none of them will even notice, mate.”

“I don’t do it for the fame, Spike,” Angel snapped and then stomped away.

Spike sat back down on the sofa and buried his face in his hands.

[Part Three](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/266646.html)


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** Lysistrata  
 **Part:**  3 of 3  
 **Pairing:**  Spike/Angel  
 **Rating:**  NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss   
 **Summary** : Spike withholds sex until Angel agrees to be more careful. Inspired by Aristophanes' Lysistrata.  
 **Notes:** **.** Incorporates the [](http://community.livejournal.com/angst_bingo/profile)[**angst_bingo**](http://community.livejournal.com/angst_bingo/)   prompt "Losing immortality." Many thanks to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  , my wonderful beta. Special thanks to [](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/profile)[**blondebitz**](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/)   who made the **three** awesome banners and **four** userpics!!

  
  
  
  
  
  
[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/0014yt93)  
---  
  
 

 

**Part Three**

Spike was tired of wanking.

He was good at it, so it wasn’t as if he didn’t reach a climax every time. But the climaxes left him unsatisfied, the same way human food failed to satisfy his true hungers. A blooming onion was nice enough but it wasn’t blood. 

As the weeks dragged by, and as Angel continued to come home in the afternoons bruised and bloody, Spike realized it wasn’t the orgasms he was missing. It was the contact. The sensation of joining with Angel, of being together. Long arms and legs and hot breaths, unintelligible Gaelic mumbles, heart beating fast for _him_. 

Desperate for all these things, Spike displayed himself shamelessly in front of Angel, sauntering about the flat naked with his cock half-hard. He’d stand against the walls like a rentboy with his hips cocked; he’d bend over anytime he could find the faintest excuse for it; he'd sit with his head tilted to the side, exposing his neck in a way he knew still drove his sire mad. He’d nick Angel’s strudel and powdered-sugar krafne, chew them slowly, and then lick the stickiness off his fingers one by one.

But he’d overestimated Angel’s need for him. Sure, sometimes Angel’s eyes would go a bit unfocused over Spike’s antics, and once in a while he’d leave the room very swiftly, but mostly he ignored Spike aside from a few grunted words. He kept the fridge stocked with blood—mostly human again, now that their source was back from holiday—and every Monday he left a pile of kuna for Spike on the kitchen counter. But they rarely spoke and never touched. They didn’t even keep the same hours: while Spike slept during the day, Angel was out and about; when Angel returned in various states of disrepair, Spike left the flat and stayed gone until dawn. 

They never fought demons together.

On a warm spring evening, Angel stumbled into the flat with one eye swollen shut and his arm in a sling. Spike ground his teeth together so hard it hurt. “Had another lovely stroll through Zrinjevac, did you?” he snarled as Angel walked by.

“Pelimidari. Up in Tuškanac.” Angel opened a cupboard and took out a bottle of Irish whiskey. He poured himself a healthy glassful and swallowed quickly. His hand was shaking.

Pelimidari were small but strong and they tended to travel in packs. Spike was wary of them himself. “Liam,” he began.

“Shut up, Spike. I don’t wanna hear it.”

“Right.”

Spike grabbed his duster and left the flat, wagering that the sun’s waning light wouldn’t reach him between the buildings.

He wandered aimlessly about Donji Grad and then toward Kaptol. As he had many times over the past weeks, he considered leaving. He didn’t have to remain and watch Angel commit slow suicide; he could go anywhere in the world. He could go somewhere where the brawls were bloodier, the clubs livelier. Where English was the native tongue. He could find a pretty girl or a pretty boy—perhaps one of each, even—find someone who wanted him, needed him. “The world is my oyster, yeah?” he said out loud, and a matron with red-dyed hair gave him a disapproving look.

He ended up at a little kavana where most of the customers were sitting at tables outside, drinking and talking and smoking. Spike sat inside, staring up at some sort of idiotic sports competition on the telly, downing glass after glass of Ožujsko. Eventually the girl who worked there became concerned enough to peel herself off her barstool and stand over his table. “Are you all right?” she asked. “Shall I ring someone to help you?”

“Nobody to ring,” he growled. “But you can bring me a refill, love.” 

“Now we are closing. You must go. I can get you a taxi….”

He shook his head and stood, then threw some coins on the table. He was only a bit wobbly on his pins as he left.

The streets were mostly deserted. But a few blocks away he found another kavana where the employees were still cleaning up the sidewalk tables. Spike stood in front of a lanky boy and pulled the last of his allowance from his pocket: a 500 kuna note. He waved it under the boy’s nose. “Give me a couple bottles of something strong and it’s yours.”

The boy eyed the money avariciously and nodded before scurrying inside. He returned a moment later with twin bottles of rakija. “Hvala,” Spike said, taking the booze and handing over the dosh.

No other night spots were open and Spike didn’t want to go home. Trying to avoid the attention of the police, Spike ducked through an archway and into a courtyard of cracked concrete and broken bits of furniture. He sat against a crumbling wall and opened the first bottle. Slivovica. Not his favorite, but better than the herbal shite, and in any case he wasn’t drinking it for the flavor. He began to chug.

It was quiet in the courtyard and it smelled of petrol and crumbled leaves. Two or three of the windows in the surrounding buildings were lit but most were dark, the residents no doubt slumbering peacefully away. It was a time for night creatures. Like Spike. Like the rat he spied nosing about near a pile of rubbish. He pictured Angel, snoring mightily away in their big bed, perhaps moaning a bit in his sleep as he often did when he was injured.

And then Spike passed out.

***

He woke up to sunshine.

The deadly rays hadn’t yet reached the bit where he’d collapsed against the wall, but when he looked up blearily the sky was bright blue, people’s laundry flapping merrily on the lines overhead. He had about ten feet left of shadow, but that little peninsula of safety was surrounded by many yards of brightness. Even with his duster for protection, he’d never be able to escape the courtyard. And even if he did, he’d only find himself on an equally sunny street a good mile from his flat.

With one hand on his aching head as if to hold the brains in, he sat up and twisted around. He could probably find footholds in the wall for the first story or two, but after that the plaster was distressingly smooth. He couldn’t possibly leap five floors into the air. And in any case, even if he could reach the roof somehow, it was even sunnier than the streets.

He was trapped.

He could call out for help, he reckoned, and hope that a passerby or someone in a nearby flat heard him. But then what would he say? “Hi, just your friendly neighborhood vampire here. Care to find me some shade?”

He shifted about until his back was against the wall, and he drew his knees up under his chin. He’d burned before. The pain had been beyond excruciating. But it had only lasted a few minutes. Other pains could fester in his dead heart for decades. Burning was cleaner.

“Burn it all away,” he whispered. He closed his eyes and tilted his sore head sideways, resting it on his knees. 

The tips of his Docs were just beginning to smolder when a tall, narrow shadow momentarily blotted out the sun. Spike slowly lifted his head to look up.

“Jesus Christ, Spike!”

“Nah. ‘S only a ponce with a hero complex.”

Angel kicked viciously at the empty rakija bottles. “This is stupid even for you.”

Spike didn’t bother to answer. He started to put his head back down, but Angel bent and hauled him to his feet. Then he flung a heavy down blanket over Spike’s head. “C’mon,” he said, tugging Spike’s arm. “The car’s parked right outside.”

Spike allowed himself to be towed to the Smart. He folded himself into the passenger seat and Angel adjusted the blanket so that it covered him completely. “Couldn’t at least get a car with a boot,” Spike complained as Angel drove away.

“Wouldn’t need one if you weren’t an idiot.”

Spike had to make a quick dash into their building when they arrived, and then he tromped slowly up the stairs, every one of his years weighing him down. When he got to the bedroom he meant to simply collapse onto the bed, but Angel grabbed him and began stripping off his clothing.

“Oi! None of that,” Spike said, trying to bat Angel’s hands away.

But Angel was persistent. “I’m not trying to have sex with you. Your clothes are filthy. I don’t want them in my bed.”

“Oh,” Spike sighed. He pulled off his shirt himself and kicked off his boots before sliding his jeans down his legs. But still Angel held him still, visually inspecting Spike’s bare body. “I’m not going to bathe, poof. If I offend you, you can wash the sheets after I wake up.”

“I was just making sure…. Never mind.” Angel let go of him.

Spike fell heavily onto the mattress and pulled the blankets up to his chin. He felt like he might never want to get out of bed again. But Angel didn’t go away. He just stood there, looming. “Wha’?” Spike asked.

“What were you doing in that courtyard?”

Spike shrugged, which was a bit awkward lying down. “Dunno. Drinking. Sleeping. Burning.”

There was a long pause, and then Angel said, “Did you intend to…. Never mind.”

Spike yawned. “Didn’t intend anything. Was just pissed.”

Angel nodded a little doubtfully and turned to go. But then Spike thought of something. “Liam?”

Angel turned back. “Yeah?”

“How’d you find me?”

Angel shifted his feet uncomfortably. “I…I called in a favor. The witch in Špansko I helped a few months back…she did a tracking spell for me.”

That made Spike blink in surprise. “You tracked me?”

“Well, yeah.” Angel wouldn’t quite meet his eyes. “It was getting pretty sunny out, and….” Suddenly, Angel sat heavily on the bed, making the mattress shake. He rubbed at his face with his hands. 

Spike sat up, his fatigue forgotten. “You were worried about me?” he asked, wincing at the hesitation in his own voice.

“Of course I was worried! You can be so goddamned reckless, Spike. When you didn’t come home…I was picturing you as a pile of dust somewhere. I was almost right, too.”

“And that would bother you? If I dusted, I mean?”

“Of course it would _bother_ me, moron! I lo—” Angel stopped himself and looked away again.

Softly, Spike ordered, “Say it.”

Angel sighed and looked him in the eyes. “I love you. Okay? You’re happy? You gonna give me some kind of speech about how I’m love’s bitch now?”

Spike wasn’t sure he was capable of any sort of speech at all. He swallowed thickly. Then he shook his head at his own foolishness and rose up on his knees to grab Angel’s shoulders. “Listen to me, you great mick pillock. I love you as well. You’re all I have, aren’t you? And the way you felt this morning—that’s how I feel every sodding day you go out without me. Only if you go missing I’ve no tracking spells to use, and if I did, I couldn’t venture out into the day to fetch you.”

“That’s what all this was about then? The no-sex thing? It wasn’t because you’re jealous, or—”

“I’m not bloody jealous!” Spike took a breath and tried to modulate his voice. “Look, you wanted to be a real boy and I’m happy for you. I fancy this tan you developed, and the way you come to me all warmed and smelling of sunshine. But I like being a vampire. I do. But you’re mortal and that means—” His voice cracked and he had to clear his throat. “Can hardly bear the thought of it, but it means someday I’m going to lose you. That’s immortality’s flaw, yeah? But God, Liam, can’t we try to postpone that day as long as possible? Please?”

“I won’t give up fighting,” Angel said quietly.

“Don’t have to. Just do it with me at your side.”

Angel looked away for a very long time. Spike studied those brown eyes, trying to read the thoughts inside, but he couldn’t. Perhaps he’d never understood Angel any better than his sire understood him.

But then Angel’s slight frown smoothed as he reached a decision. “All right,” he said.

“All right what?”

“No more fights unless you’re there.”

Spike let out a long breath. “Promise? Truly?”

“I promise.”

They embraced then, Angel grunting slightly when Spike jostled his bruises a bit too hard. When they pulled apart, Angel was smiling. “Does this mean the sex—”

“Peace.”

“Huh? ”

“We’ve found Peace.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Spike.”

Spike grinned. “Course not, you unlettered lout. Doesn’t matter anyway.”

“But…the sex?”

Spike looked down at his own cock, which was already half-erect in anticipation. “I reckon we’ve several weeks to make up for.”

Angel whooped and half-tackled him, pushing him back flat on the mattress, ignoring his own lingering aches and pains. As Spike tore Angel’s clothing away and they began to move together, Spike recited, stopping now and then to gasp and moan, and then falling into silence when even Aristophanes’ words deserted him:

Lead out the Graces,

Call Artemis out;

Then her brother, the Dancer of Skies,

That gracious Apollo.

Invoke with a shout

Dionysus out of whose eyes

Breaks fire on the maenads that follow,

And Zeus with his flares of quick lightning, and call

Happy Hera, Queen of all,

And all the Daimons summon hither to be

Witnesses of our revelry

And of the noble Peace we have made,

Aphrodite our aid.

_~~~fin~~~_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Feedback greatly appreciated!


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